


Don’t Listen to the Band

by HoneySempai



Series: A Cord of Three Strands [3]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Folk Music, Gaslighting, Hydra, Hypnosis, M/M, Memory Alteration, Multi, Mutant Bucky Barnes, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Scottish Bucky Barnes, Torture, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 12:05:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15388398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneySempai/pseuds/HoneySempai
Summary: With Peggy it’s so easy to imagine that this place is lit up with electricity, that there’s an actual multi-piece band or at least a pianist, and other dancers, and Steve watching them surreptitiously as he nurses something cheap from the bar, smiling with his eyes. He’s so happy he can conceive of her this way, as a light in a dark room; it’s nothing short of wondrous that he’s capable of that, considering everything, all the damage his mind has taken—





	Don’t Listen to the Band

**Author's Note:**

> This entry in the Zooropa series is the start of another mini-series, which is based on the song “[Numb](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=-e1Rn1cItvc).” If you never listen to any of the songs that inspire this series, I really do recommend you listen to this one. 
> 
> This is probably not a mini-series I’ll update frequently, because...well, “Numb” is essentially the soundtrack to torture porn, and I’ve got both technical and emotional limits in this regard. But since, in other stories, I’ve mentioned Bucky’s files as cause for agony in Steve and Peggy, and mercy from Tony, I figured that at some point I ought to illustrate some of the things that they’ve read.
> 
> This first story was written as a prompt from my friend koreanrage over on tumblr, who asked me for a story revolving around “Bucky/Peggy + Remember me”

“Well,” Peggy says dryly, “this place has seen better days.”

 _This place_ used to be a club of some sort. There’s a bar, though it’s long since been raided of any alcohol, and a stage, also long since raided of any instruments. The electricity no longer works; they tried a few spots before an ominously sparking switch made them give up. The windows have remained mostly in tact, at least; not one of them is fully shattered and only a few sport bullet holes, so Peggy and Bucky have a nice piece of moonlight illuminating the dance floor, and some decent protection against drafts. 

It’s not precisely “luck” that’s given them the night to themselves. Their last engagement was slightly more explosive than usual; Steve’s sleeping off having some shrapnel from an unfortunate tank removed from his leg, and most of the others have various, though thankfully more minor, wounds to tend to. But this town is safely within friendly territory—DumDum had volunteered himself, Happy Sam, Pinky, and Junior to patrol for any enemy stragglers, just to make sure—and before falling asleep Steve had insisted they not hover over him, so taking a few hours out of the leave owed them to explore was really the only thing left to do tonight. 

“Not if _you’ve_ never been here before.”

Peggy backhands Bucky in the stomach reflexively, murmur-squeaking some dismissal of the compliment. He grabs her hand before she can pull it away and, after a moment of finagling, bends it at the elbow so he can graze kisses along the back of her fingers. 

“Happy two years, by the way.”

“Oh Lord, is it really?”

“Think so. It’s close enough, in any case.” They hadn’t had much of a way to track the days at that point, but he’d tried. 

“Mm.” Peggy turns. Bucky lets go of her wrist, but contact is quickly re-established when she winds her arms around his neck and presses their foreheads together. Their start, by itself, had been kind and sincere and illuminated by firelight, but it had been encircled by terror and rage, and there hasn’t been as much chance as they’d like in the meantime to gentle their surroundings. 

No time like the present. “Happy two years, then,” Peggy says, using her leverage to tilt their mouths towards each other. 

“This is a nice turnaround from this morning,” Bucky mutters, once Peggy breaks the kiss. 

Peggy scoffs, rolling her eyes and head dramatically. So much for that. “You’re such a child, Barnes.”

“Ah, I am not, in fact.”

“Hmm, no, indeed you are,” Peggy says, stepping back and crossing her arms. 

“I’m not the one sulking—”

“I am not _sulking_.”

“—fine, who _was_ sulking, because one of her men _dared_ to stick up for her—”

“I was perfectly—”

“—which _some_ people might at least, I dunno, _pretend_ to appreciate—”

“Now you listen and you listen well, James Buchanan Barnes,” Peggy says, pressing her finger against his chest. They’ve both kept a laugh in their voice this whole time, but Bucky had snapped at some liaison who had remarked on Peggy’s familiarity with the men around her, and Peggy’s been keeping irritation on simmer ever since. “I have been in this war longer than you or Steve or that adolescent playing like he’s an officer. I have heard comments that would make a woman commit mass andricide and oh, are you lucky that I have been no more than sorely tempted to do so. I am a grown woman and an agent and I am more than capable of defending my honor on my own.”

Bucky tilts his head back, eyes going heavenward, as his lips try to decide if they want to smile or not. “God, why did there have to be two of you.”

“What was that now?” Peggy asks, raising her eyebrows and pressing her finger against him harder. 

They decide to smile, though wryly, and Bucky brings his hand up so it rests very lightly on hers. 

“I said that the thing is, you don’t _have_ to.”

He feels her finger twitch, meaning that she’s adamantly trying not to wilt. Bucky moves before she can get annoyed at the struggle, picking up her hand and kissing her knuckles again, and then lifting their arms so he can spin her under them. She’s about three-quarter turned when he pivots on his heel and clasps her to his hip; leaning away from her, he hefts her up off her feet, and she lets out a not unhappy high-pitched noise as he spins them in a circle. 

“I wasn’t trying to...I dunno, undermine you, or...” Bucky says once he sets her down again, and their arms drape loosely around each other of their own accord. “Old habits.” He bobs his head from side to side, hoping that Steve is in one direction or the other. 

Peggy clears her throat, so that when she mutters “Same” through the cough Bucky knows how put-upon she is to do so. 

They shift together, faces snuggled into each other’s shoulders, understanding that a full peace has been acquired and letting themselves bask in it for a moment. Then the sole of Peggy’s shoe begins tapping a rhythm on the floor, and she smiles widely against Bucky’s neck.

Bucky lifts his head, bobbing it until the beat is firmly entrenched in his brain, and after Peggy puffs air into the shape of a melody he nods his head, moving his arms so one is holding Peggy’s hand up, and the other rests on her lower back. 

“An excellent choice, Agent Carter.”

“A _hem_.” Peggy reaches back, seizing Bucky’s hand and dragging it up so it rests on her shoulder blade. “Don’t get too familiar, Barnes.”

“My apologies.”

“Just what do you think I am to you, anyway?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, and smiles into hers. 

They scat their way through _[In the Mood](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_CI-0E_jses)_ first, which carries on in fits and starts for a few minutes as they lose track of how many verses they’ve gotten through. Peggy’s the one who makes the executive decision to end it, after they’ve tripped over their own and each other’s feet enough to let the beat escape, by cutting abruptly to _[Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Mm1wuKvrxAw)_ , but she can’t quite decide which part of the harmony she wants to sing, and Bucky ends up burying his face in her collar bone, laughing as her voice jumps all over the staff. She swats at his head, which doesn’t stop him from snickering, but he does straighten out to continue leading her around the floor. 

With Peggy it’s so easy to imagine that this place is lit up with electricity, that there’s an actual multi-piece band or at least a pianist, and other dancers, and Steve watching them surreptitiously as he nurses something cheap from the bar, smiling with his eyes. He’s so happy he can conceive of her this way, as a light in a dark room; it’s nothing short of wondrous that he’s capable of that, considering everything, all the damage his mind has taken—

Peggy winces suddenly during the fourth song; her knee knocks against his as it stutters underneath her, and her hip presses up against his. 

“You all right?”

“Fine, I’m fine, darling,” Peggy says, despite the twist in her face and body. “Bit of a leg cramp, is all.”

“You need me to...?” Bucky bends slightly, reaching for her bent leg. 

“No, no, I’m...” She winces, despite herself, and heaves an aggravated sigh. “All right. No one’s about...”

Bucky drops his face into the crook of her shoulder and huffs, taking the opportunity to nibble her neck, making her squeak, before he crouches, puts either of his arms around her upper thighs and lower back, and lifts her carefully off the floor. The empty stage is only a few steps away and it’s there he deposits her, stepping to the side so he can stretch her aching leg out for observation. Her calf looks slightly swollen...her serum, as usual, is developing a muscle at precisely the wrong time.

“Here, lay back,” Bucky says, putting a hand on her shoulder and pressuring her to do so. 

“I hardly think this is the time, Barnes,” Peggy purrs, even as she does so. 

“Why not?” Bucky hefts her leg higher in the air, so her ankle rests on his shoulder. “We got the time. Got the privacy, too...”

He presses both his thumbs against her calf, rubbing and needling the spot carefully as she bites her lip and tries not to grimace. Bucky gives her a sympathetic look, and nuzzles at her foot with his cheek. 

“Maybe not the mood, I’ll give you that.”

Peggy looks like she wants to banter, but another wince cuts her off, and with the moment gone she elects instead to wriggle her upper body into a comfortable position against the stage, and let Bucky try to ease the throbbing ache in her calf. 

“I trysted my own love / Tonight in the broom / My Ronald, who loves me so dearly / But tomorrow he marches / To Edinburgh town / To fight for the King and Prince Charlie...”

Peggy stretches out her hand and scritches at the wood beneath her, in lieu of taking his occupied hand. It’s inherited from his Ma; both Bucky’s drive to entertain the wounded and ailing, and the old songs he uses to do so. Steve’s been on the receiving end of them for years, and Romy was too when she cried in the night, battened down in whatever ditch they could find or guest room they could con their way into. Peggy’s only gotten little snatches of hummed melodies and occasional breathy words—discretion rules everything about their relationship—so she makes sure to smile up at him encouragingly. 

“Yet why do you weep / My bonnie, bonnie May?” Bucky continues, smiling back at her and dropping his pitch slightly, to take the man’s point of view. “Your true love from battle’s returning / His darling he’ll claim / In the might of his fame / And change into gladness her mourning.”

“My, what a high estimation of himself Sir Ronald has...”

“Oh, well may I weep,” Bucky continues, higher-pitched again and now somewhat pointed, though his hands remain thoughtful on her leg, “Yester evening in my sleep / We stood bride and bridegroom together / But his lips and his breath / Were as chilly as death / And his heart’s blood was red in the heather...”

Peggy widens her eyes to an almost comical degree. “Well that...that certainly took a turn, darling.”

He hears her say so, but he doesn’t quite register it. Peggy’s face has...it does this sometimes; it’s not quite changed, not quite blurred, but...it’s _shifted_ , into something else. Something too pale, that makes him squint. Something not right. 

“Oh, dauntless in battle / As tender in love,” Bucky continues, the melody slipping in and out of existence as the words stumble off his tongue. “He’ll yield ne’er a foot to the foeman...”

Peggy twitches her leg, and then frees it from his slackened hold; sliding it gently—concernedly—down his side as she sits upright. 

“And never again / From the field of the slain / To Moira he’ll come, and Loch Lomond...”

Peggy surges up, grabbing Bucky’s face and all but smashing their mouths together; he flinches away when their teeth click against each other, sending a reverberating pain through his gums, but Peggy grabs his jaw and drags him back, pushing away the hand he had used to cover his mouth and bringing her face close to his again. 

“I don’t like that,” she hisses, her teeth scraping and pinching his lips as she talks, priming them for the harsh kiss she presses against them. “I don’t like that at all, Bucky. There’ll be no...” Her voice cracks, and she shudders. “There’ll be no more talk such as that. Am I understood? Not one more word.”

He nods in small, rapid jerks, making her kisses land everywhere but on target. He’s shaking, he gets like this sometimes, he just needs to, he just...

“Calm down,” Peggy whispers, fitting her chin over her shoulder so she can put her lips next to his ear. “Darling, please. I’m here, and I’m good company, am I not? Aren’t I enough?”

“Yeah,” Bucky rasps. “Yeah, you...you are, Peggy, you are.” She’s here, right in front of him, and he doesn’t want to think about or feel anything but her hands carding through his hair, her good leg wrapping around his back, drawing her forward so she’s closer to flush against him. “Peggy, I swear it, you’re...I...”

“Shh...” Her fingers find their way to Bucky’s neck, massaging it just as he had tended to her leg. “Relax, my darling. Please. Just concentrate on me. Don’t let your mind wander.”

He won’t, he swears he won’t. She’s here and she’s enough, she’s worth, the _promise_ of her and Steve is worth everything he’s going through. He can’t allow himself to think otherwise. He’ll go useless if he does.

Peggy noises softly in his ear some more, her nails raking his scalp and neck and shoulders, over and over, until he’s half-draped atop her, worked into slack submission. Then it’s a pleased little hum she offers him, and a few pats between his shoulder blades, before she inches her way forward so she can slide off the stage and onto her feet. 

“Something nice now, please,” she says, quiet, crisp. 

“Peggy...”

“And...something slow, perhaps?” she continues, aping gaiety now; she turns her face up to his, and her smile is close to bright. “For me, my darling. Please.”

She actually bats her lashes at him, and her lips mould themselves into a pout, and a little laugh escapes him despite everything. There’s no saying no to that face. No saying no to any of her faces, ever. 

“All right.” 

He moves just enough to prop her against the stage, so her weight rests against support and not atop her still-wobbly legs, and presses up against her so she’s sandwiched between him and the wood. 

“How about...”

They have just enough freedom of movement to hold each other and sway...all she can offer at the moment, and all he thinks he can manage, besides. 

“[The way you wear your hat / The way you sip your tea](https://youtu.be/i2oaJL7g4hg)...”

“Ohh, a smart choice, Barnes,” Peggy murmurs, letting the corner of her lips ghost over the front of his shoulder as she talks. “Thank you.”

“...The memory of all that / Oh, no, they can’t take that away from me / The way your smile just beams...” He drags a lock of her hair out of the way, so he can see her face. “The way you sing off-key...”

The heel of her shoe presses against the toe of his hard enough to be a warning, and he bites back a mischievous grin, though he doesn’t manage to keep a chuckle out of his next few words. 

“The way you haunt my dreams / No, no, they can’t take that away from me...”

He pauses, recalling the next few lines and deciding that they ought to be hummed. She won’t like them, not after a beseeching like the one she just gave him, and he won’t upset her again right now, not for anything in the world. 

_We may never, never meet again on the bumpy road to love_  
_But I’ll always, always keep the memory of_

“Thank you for your assistance, Doctor,” Karpov says, glancing over at the silver tray when another tooth, vivid white splashed with equally bright red, clatters onto it. 

“My pleasure,” Ivchenko says, with a small smile and a gracious bob of his head. “May I ask how you pulled this little procedure off without me...?”

“Well, the first time was a different situation,” Karpov says, lifting up off his seat and readjusting his stance before sitting again. “We kept him awake for that.”

“Oh?” 

“Well at the time, we’d just acquired him, and he was still... _ornery_ , let’s say. We had to show him who was boss.”

Ivchenko nods. A trail of pink saliva spills over the Asset’s lower lip; the surgeon picks up a white hand towel, wipes the bloody drool away, and tosses the towel into the small trash can at his feet. 

“It’s not as though anesthesia works right on him, in any case,” Karpov continues. “Even back then.”

“Hence...” Ivchenko says, gesturing at himself. He’d been hustled into the infirmary, informed along the way that the Asset had sustained severe dental damage during a bout with one of the newer test subjects. 

Said newer test subject is currently seizing on a table in the other room. Reportedly there’s nothing to be done for him. 

“It’s the damnedest thing,” Karpov continues. “Zola’s done...” he casts his mind about for an appropriate figure, “hundreds of trials, at least, since ‘42. And every single one of them failed, except for this one here.” Karpov stretches his legs, kicking the Asset’s foot when it’s within reach. “And I mean they failed spectacularly, Doctor. I saw one of ‘em claw his own eye out and try to eat it.”

“Pleasant.”

“And then there’s him.” He kicks the Asset’s foot again, harder this time; the surgeon turns his head to glare at him. “Looking fresh as daisies almost twenty years on. It’s crazy.”

“Hm.” Ivchenko taps a finger against his mouth, and then purses his lip. “Have you considered that the explanation might be genetic?”

“How d’you mean?”

“That there’s something in his make-up that protects from the intended effects of Zola’s work. A...mutation, if you will.”

“I thought muties were all...you know, that they’re freaks. Gills and tails and shit like that.”

“On the contrary. Many if not most of them pass for normal human beings.”

“No shit.” Karpov glances sideways at Ivchenko, and then his ring. “So’re you...?”

“Me? No, I don’t think so. I wasn’t able to do all this,” he gestures at the Asset, “before I acquired the ring. Not for lack of trying, mind you.”

The Asset moans, loudly, throwing himself back against the chair; the surgeon reflexively pushes his seat back but neglects to free the pliers and bring them with him. The already dented tooth cracks in half lengthwise, the Asset’s scream drags itself through the pool of saliva gathering at the back of his mouth, and Ivchenko hustles to his side. 

“Focus,” Ivchenko says, laying a hand on the Asset’s shoulder, gripping it to help quell the shaking. “Concentrate, soldier. Stay where you are.”

The Asset turns eyes hovering between blank and alive towards him, and Ivchenko brings his hand up, so his patient can see his ring.

“You made this place yourself, and it’s nice, isn’t it? You’re in good company there, yes? Any pain is all in the past. You are happy where you are in this moment. That is all that matters right now.”

The Asset blinks at him and makes a damp, strangled noise. Ivchenko smiles, schooling his expression into something gentle and firm, and keeps murmuring balms until the Asset sinks into the chair, hands loosened from the fists they had formed, convulsions reduced to a fine tremble. 

“Good. Very good, soldier. Stay there. Don’t let your mind wander.”

Karpov slaps the back of the surgeon’s head, cussing him out in rapid-fire—where does this man come from, the Netherlands?—Dutch, before shoving his chair back towards the Asset. 

“I don’t like this.” An oral suction device whirs loudly to life; Karpov glares at the back of the surgeon’s head, but waits for him to finish clearing out the Asset’s mouth and click the machine off before continuing. “If we keep letting him do this, one day it’s going to backfire.”

Ivchenko purses his lips, and eventually he nods. 

They’ve been rather fortunate so far. The Asset had given himself some pretty impressive brain damage back in ‘45. And nowadays, when everyone treats him like he’s always been Hydra’s property, there isn’t much cause for him to question the assertion. 

But Karpov’s worry isn’t groundless. The Asset’s mind has been trying to heal itself since even before Ivchenko was brought to this base; there have been moments when the Asset has lashed out, or suddenly ceased performing a task, or asked for someone he hasn’t seen in twenty someodd years. 

Cryo halts the progress, and some of the other experiments they’ve performed on him have frayed it, even set it back. Corporal punishment helps, a little; it makes him less willing to indulge himself. They’ve re-characterized the memories, too; casting them as the products of an advanced artificial intelligence, one sophisticated enough to construct a name and a fantasy world from the bits and pieces of other agents’ lives that the Asset has overheard them speak about. 

(Maybe one day, Ivchenko’s suggested, when Hydra’s finished their good work, when the world is finally free, he’ll have the chance to go out and find someone like his Peggy or his Steve; someone to whom it’s appropriate to tell his chosen name, with whom he could enjoy the hard-won peace.)

And it’s worked, thus far; the Asset has never yet come out of hypnosis believing that his memories are, in fact, _memories_. 

All the same, though...

“There’s a man I’ve heard of,” Ivchenko says, slowly. “Ivanov, I think his name is. Vlad Ivanov.”

“What about him?”

“He claims he’s invented a machine that can show us the brain, how it works.”

“...and...?”

“...Indulge me. When I hypnotize a patient, it’s not me who’s ultimately moving their limbs.” He gestures in the Asset’s direction. “I’m not concentrating on keeping this one calm at all right now. At this point, he is doing it to himself.”

“So what is it you’re actually doing?”

“So far as I can tell, what I can do is... _open my subjects’ minds_ to the power of suggestion. _Very_ widely.” He pauses, to offer a small huff of a laugh, and receive one in kind. “And the more I encourage them to distract themselves, the more open they become; the less they’re able to fight my influence, until eventually I don’t have to actively _try_ anymore. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Karpov says. “Yeah, I think so.”

“So, I’m wondering...if we were able to look at this one’s brain while he’s under my influence, see what parts are actually being affected, we might, from there, find a way to stimulate them without my particular brand of hypnosis...in other words, without allowing him to think of his past, and all the risks thereof.”

“Hm.” Karpov purses his lips to the side and tilts his head. “Could stick that in the suggestion box, at least.”

“I mean, after all, I won’t be around to pacify him forever. And I assume eventually you’re going to want to get more out of him than just a guinea pig. Or,” he gestures towards the other room, “a punching bag, as the case may be.”

Karpov snorts, but he looks thoughtful. “It’s an idea, certainly.”

“Always happy to be of service.”

“Maybe we’ll pay Ivanov a visit in the near future, either way. Give his papers a once-over.”

“That’s probably wise.”

“That’s the last one,” the surgeon says, as he pulls the seventh damaged tooth out of the Asset’s mouth; it comes out with a harsh sucking sound and a rivulet of blood that the surgeon stems with a cotton ball. “So did you decide,” he addresses Karpov, “am I replacing the implants _now_ , or...?”

“Ahhh...” 

Karpov glances through the window to the other room. The other Asset Potential is still and stiff as a board now, and while the realistic part of Karpov knows that it was Zola’s work that ultimately did the guy in, the Asset Actual _was_ the last one to touch him before he started seizing. 

“You know what? Let him wake up a bit first.”

“The way you hold your knife,” Bucky croons in Peggy’s ear, as she nestles closer, more comfortably against his chest, “The way we danced ‘til three / The way you’ve changed my life / No, no, they can’t take that away from me...”

Peggy makes a contented little noise, exhaling soft and deep across his skin, and he forces himself to finish even though his whole mouth is starting to hurt. 

It does that sometimes. 

“No, they can’t take that away from me...”

**Author's Note:**

> The folk song is an alternate, and possibly older, [version](https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=inu.39000005815985;view=1up;seq=304;skin=mobile) of “[Loch Lomond](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=feLT7Btuqpc)” and has the same tune. I rendered it in English from the Scottish Gaelic for the sake of my presumably English-speaking audience. 
> 
> In 1960 [Vladislav Ivanov](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vladislav_Ivanov_\(physicist\)) put in a patent for his version of an MRI, though it would not be officially approved until the 70s. Hydra doesn’t really let things like bureaucracy or medical ethics get in their way, though, so they had one up and running within the next few years. (Research that would lead up to the creation of the modern MRI had already been conducted elsewhere in the world, but as Hydra was trying to lay especially low at this point, they didn’t have much means to acquire such firsthand research.)
> 
> Ivchenko was either released from SHIELD custody, or he was transferred to this base. Whether that transfer was carried out knowingly, by a Hydra mole, or unknowingly, by a sincere SHIELD agent thinking he was simply transferring Ivchenko to another prison, I leave up to you.


End file.
